The Race

by Alice Ward

  But she wasn’t my family. For the fifth night in a row, I ended up ordering delivery Domino’s pizza, eating a whole pie myself and sending a million mammoth, rambling texts to Brody until he finally came back with, Can you fucking leave me alone now? I’m with a girl, and she thinks you’re a psycho ex.

  NASCAR drivers didn’t get much time practicing on the speedway — it was against the rules. Most often, they had to rely on realistic simulators, like the one UnCaged had arranged to have set up in the backyard of the offices, in a nondescript warehouse next to the river. It was for all their employees, but they’d had a section of it all set up for me, with the simulator, my own gym, and all kinds of fancy equipment.

  Now that I had all the stuff that I thought would give me the edge, it turned out that I didn’t know what to do with it.

  Despite never having driven in one before in my life, I’d quickly gotten the hang of the simulator and had been practicing on it every morning to get strong enough to hit my five hundred. I had to say, it helped. When I got done with my first two hundred, I felt the fatigue. And the parts of the schedule from Laura that I could make out were no joke. It had me doing something from eight in the morning until five at night. She had me running five miles a day, then doing the simulator all afternoon. I lifted free weights, because at least I knew how to handle those, and stayed away from the machines.

  But something had quickly begun to feel off. After the first couple of days, when all my questions to people around me were met with, “Where’s Mr. Cage? He’s usually all over this,” I realized what it was.

  Locke Cage was deliberately ignoring me.

  It was bad enough that he’d left me high and… incredibly wet… in my apartment a week ago. I’d spent that night cursing his name. But then, the following day, he’d been all sweet to me, giving me encouragement while that Curling Iron Nazi Adlar tried to pretty me up, so I softened. As he sat there, whispering words that made me want him all the more, I thought that maybe we could pick things up where we’d left them.

  And then he just walked away. Again.

  I wasn’t going to give him a chance for a third strike. He was out, right now.

  At least I told myself that.

  When I wasn’t thinking of that rock-hard chest of his. His eyes. The way the right side of his mouth lifted higher when he smiled.

  I sighed.

  I sucked at playing games with men. I didn’t have time for that shit. But it soon became clear that Locke was a master at it, and the name of this game was, pretend nothing happened.

  I wouldn’t have dealt with that shit, had it been anyone else. I would’ve called him out and made him rue the day he ever thought he could pull that shit with me. But something made me bite my tongue.

  Namely, a multimillion-dollar contract.

  My phone buzzed with a text, and I picked it up. No surprise to see it was from Laura, asking if I was having a good day. Just seeing her last name put me back on the roller coaster of emotions her brother had me on. I scowled. He didn’t have the right to do that. To peel back my layers and delve further into me than anyone else had ever gone, then just leave.

  I went back to being mad as a hornet.

  I texted back, jabbing in the letters as if the phone was Locke’s face. I’m good, thanks.

  Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need?

  I looked around. I’d done fine with a lot less in my life. But my brother’s voice was whispering in my ear. This was my one shot, and these little extras were here to make me into the best athlete I could be. I didn’t want anyone telling me what to do, including that overpriced beepy bracelet that I was forced to wear, but…

  I sucked in my pride.

  I could use a trainer to show me how to use all these fancy gadgets in here.

  No problem, she texted back. We’ve got plenty of those.

  When I slid into the simulator seat, Bruce, who ran the training center, adjusted the ride for me. “Going to go for four hundred today?”

  I hadn’t gotten there yet, hadn’t even gone much past three hundred, but I needed something to work off this stress. I fixed the helmet over my head, feeling adrenaline coursing through my veins. “Hell yeah. Let’s do this.”

  The simulator was a hell of a lot easier than a regular race. For one, I didn’t have to worry about dying, and it wasn’t nearly as trying on the muscles. It was a good lesson in endurance, and about the best practice a driver like me could get off an actual track. I tightened my gloves and shuffled my backside into the molded seat.

  Bruce’s voice was being piped into my ears since he was playing pit chief, taking the place of Brody, who was home doing daily therapy to build his strength. “All right, James. And you are on.”

  I waited for the countdown and tore out of the gate, pressing hard on the accelerator so I could get where I was comfortable. This race had me at pole position, so I didn’t have to get around many obstacles. Should have been easy.

  But it wasn’t.

  I started out fine. But by lap twenty, I started thinking about my family. Being in a new city, away from everyone I knew, had worn on me. Hadn’t seen my parents in a week, which was by far the longest time I’d ever been away from them. Brody was coming next weekend to train as my pit crew chief, but he’d been taciturn during my marathon texts and strangely quiet during our phone conversations, when I gave him the rundown on everything that was happening. I tried to tone it down, but I could almost feel his green-eyed monster eying me. Not that I could blame him. I would’ve been sore about it too.

  And then I started thinking about Locke. Weirdly enough, aside from Laura, who was more like my mother, he was the closest thing to a friend I had out here. And I got it. He didn’t want to mix business and pleasure. I wasn’t so sure it was a good idea myself, but I needed someone to connect with, and not just in a sexual way.

  But lately, I couldn’t think about Locke without thinking about sex. He’d made that impossible the second he peeled off his shirt and gave me a glimpse of the chiseled manliness underneath.

  There was no denying that I’d never been as attracted to a man as I’d been to Locke. When my mind wandered to what we’d done on the balcony, how his mouth felt on mine, the heavy, tortured groans he’d made as he explored my body… I felt my focus shake. A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead and into my eye, but I blinked it away, even though it burned.

  I made it another ten laps before my thoughts wandered again, this time moving right past what had happened on the balcony. It spiraled out into a fantasy, and soon I was letting out a gasp at the thought of our bodies pressed together, imagining each one of those delicious muscles flexing as he thrust into me…

  Shit!

  Around a curve, I miscalculated and ended up veering too far to the outside of the oval, clipping the car beside me. The simulator spared me all the flames and the likely whiplash that would’ve happened as my car flipped. Instead of real life screaming, it flashed Danger! Danger!

  Crash and burn.

  I closed my eyes and rested my head on the steering wheel as Bruce’s voice floated into my ear. “What happened, Emma?”

  Locke happened. Locke and that deadly body of his, which he’d made the mistake of showing me. And I’d made the mistake of looking at.

  Dammit.

  Lifting off my helmet, I blew a stray lock of hair off my face and slid out of the seat, skulking toward where Bruce was coming from the control booth to meet me, a confused look on his face. “You were killing it, the first hundred.”

  “I know, I know,” I mumbled, not willing to say what really happened; that I’d lost it because I’d been drooling at the thought of being in Locke’s strong arms. “But I—”

  I froze and swallowed my words as Locke stepped out of the booth behind Bruce.

  I blushed red as the Phoenix sunset and hoped I could blame it on the heat of the simulator. I hadn’t seen him in days, and he was like food to a starving orphan. He was wearing a bla
ck tech shirt and running shorts that bared his well-sculpted thighs and calves.

  “Fucked up?” he finished for me, crossing his arms over his chest.

  I frowned.

  Bruce was nice about it, at least. “It happens. Want to start again?”

  I massaged my shoulder and stretched, rolling it. I was already fatigued from running earlier in the day. Plus, Locke was here now, and that meant I wouldn’t be able to concentrate at all. Shit, that was not boding well for my racing career, if I couldn’t perform in front of my own sponsor. “I think I’ll hold off until tomorrow.”

  Locke gave me a hard look. “You think that’s wise? Looks like you need all the practice you can get.”

  I didn’t know if he was talking from the perspective of the owner of UnCaged or because it was just wired into his brain to give me shit no matter what I did. “I’m listening to my body,” I said. “Good athletes do.”

  He let out a short laugh, and I had to wonder what I said that he found so objectionable. That listening to your body was important? That I was good? Or that I was an athlete? Anyway I sliced it, it pissed me off.

  “What?”

  He shook his head like he had no opinion, but I could tell he was making judgments in that head of his, and not kind ones. Bastard.

  Bruce touched my elbow. “Tomorrow will be another day.” He had his Dale Earnhardt ballcap on and was ready to leave for the night. He looked at Locke. “If you’re hanging around, mind locking up for me, Mr. Cage?”

  Locke shook his head and waved him away, still eyeing the simulator doubtfully. It suddenly struck me.

  “Oh. I get it,” I singsonged as I patted the cage of the simulator. “You think this is a video game, is that it?”

  “I never said—”

  “Don’t have to. It’s written all over that pretty boy face of yours. And I bet you don’t even think drivers are athletes. Am I right?”

  He shrugged. “One. It looks like a video game. And two, yes, it is true, I’ve never thought of car drivers as athletes. After all, anyone can press on a pedal.” A slow smile spread on his face. “Even pretty boys.”

  My jaw dropped. So, he was spending millions of dollars on me just so I could press on a pedal? Fighting the urge to punch something, namely him, I said, “That right?” I stepped aside, presenting the seat of the simulator to him like a new fridge on The Price is Right. “Then be my guest.”

  He crossed his arms. “I haven’t played a video game since I was twelve.”

  I hooked a finger at him, motioning him forward. “Scared, pretty boy?”

  “No, I—”

  I started making clucking chicken noises, flapping my arms for good measure.

  He dropped his hands to his sides. “Fine.” He came up to the simulator, so unbearably close that I could smell the scent of his aftershave. Giving me a smooth, defiant glare, he slid into the seat, holding his hands up as if he didn’t know what button to press. “And?”

  I pointed things out to him. “This here is called a steering wheel. The thing under your foot is the gas.” When he gave me a narrow-eyed sneer, I shrugged innocently. “You can figure the rest out yourself.”

  “I plan to.”

  I went to the control panel. “I’ll start you off easy. Twenty laps. Try not to lose your pants, okay, pretty boy?”

  He glared at me, one hand on the wheel as if this was a ride in the park. The screen flickered, showing the beginning of the race. When the countdown reached zero, he floored it. But it didn’t matter. All the other cars tore ahead of him, passing him on each side as if he was standing still.

  I watched the tendons in his forearms tense as he leaned forward and fastened both hands tightly on the wheel. “What the… fuck.”

  I checked the display. “You’ve got to go faster than that. You’re only going ninety.”

  He pushed it, but then suddenly slowed. “Curve.”

  I snorted. “Those happen from time to time in an oval.”

  He did manage to get through the next few laps, albeit at the very back of the pack. Eventually, he figured it out and managed to get up to one-twenty. But on lap nineteen, overconfident, while trying to make up lost ground, he spun out and crashed, just as I had.

  He banged the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “Christ.” Then he looked up at my superior expression and scowled. “That was my first go.”

  “You can try again if you want?”

  He grabbed his upper arm through his t-shirt and rolled his shoulder. “Shit. No, thanks.”

  “Tired?”

  He shook his head. “I’m good. Not used to the position, obviously. But good.”

  “Oh, of course.” I wiped a bit of sweat from his temple and triumphantly showed him my glistening fingertip. “I’m sure it was just the… position.”

  He sat up and rose so that all six-feet-something of him was standing over me. “All right. It may be a tad more involved than I first thought.”

  He struck me as the type of person who didn’t admit when he was wrong, so I silently claimed victory. “Well, you ever want to try it again, I’ll keep my training center open for you.” I smiled.

  He held out his hands. “I didn’t come here to play,” he said with a superior air, the asshole. “Laura texted me you needed a trainer. So here I am.”

  I stared at him, mouth open. “Wait. You?”

  “Don’t look so shocked that I happen to know my way around a gym.”

  “No, I mean, obviously you do, because…” I stopped. Great, Emma, way to make it seem like all you’ve been doing since that night is drooling over his massive pectorals. Which, to be honest, I had been. They were glorious. Simply unforgettable. Magazine-cover worthy. “I just thought you’d be too busy, considering your schedule.”

  “It’s not permanent. Just until we can get someone else in for you. But I thought I could at least introduce you around the gym since Laura said you’ve never been to one?”

  “I’ve worked out,” I corrected, following him through a wide doorway to another hallway which led to the gym. “But back home, I’ve just got a barbell and a couple of dumbbells. That’s about it.”

  He pushed open a door and let me pass into the gym. Besides the regular weight bench with the free weights, a couple of treadmills, and an elliptical machine, I’d never seen any of these contraptions before in my life.

  He clapped his hands together. “All right. So where do we start? What have you done today?”

  “Nothing weight-wise. I ran five miles.”

  “Treadmill?”

  I nodded.

  “You should work on running on the beach. The sand adds more resistance and makes for a tougher workout. And I prefer the scenery to the treadmill, anyway. Don’t you?”

  I shrugged. I ran, but it didn’t excite me the way it excited him. I could tell from the way he talked about it that he loved it. “We don’t have much scenery in Wintersburg.”

  He reached onto a shelf and pulled out a white thing that looked like a parachute.

  I held out my hands, instantly petrified. “I’m not skydiving. You know me and heights, Mr. Cage.”

  He chuckled softly and spread it out. “After you get good at running on the sand, you can add this for more resistance. It’ll make you stronger, quicker, head to toe.”

  I grimaced. It all sounded painful. “Okay. Sand. And chute. Got it.”

  He held up a hand. “Don’t try both at once. Ease into the beach running, and once you get comfortable with the sand, you can try both, or else you’re just asking for injury.”

  I nodded.

  “So you haven’t lifted today?”

  I shook my head.

  “What did you do yesterday?”

  “I lifted.”

  His nostrils flared, and I felt his irritation with me grow. “What body parts did you work?”

  He was studying me like I was an idiot. And I’d been so cocky a minute ago, at the simulator. “Um. You know. All of them?” Now I was
answering his questions with a question because he was making me feel that inferior.

  He shook his head. “Okay, okay. Here’s what you need to do. I’ll write it down for you. You work a different body part every day of the week. Monday, legs. Tuesday, chest and triceps. Wednesday, shoulders and traps. Thursday, biceps and back. Friday, start with legs again. You need to give your muscles a chance to rebuild between workouts. Except abs and lower back; you’ll work those every day. Got it?”

  He’d rattled it off so quickly I’d been lost a few words after “here’s what you need to do.” But I didn’t want to feel like any more of an idiot, so I said, “Yes.”

  “Good.” He nodded and led me over to a large metal rectangular cage that was bigger than the both of us put together. He wrapped his hand around one of the surrounding metal bars. “This is a Smith Machine. We’ll do legs.”

  I quickly learned that when he said “we” he really just meant “me.” He showed me each exercise, gave me the correct weight, and then he spotted me, giving me pointers and saying things like, “Back straight” and “Don’t lean forward” like a freaking drill sergeant.

  Two hours later, I was really starting to get angry at myself for having made fun of him at the simulator. He showed me how to do squats and lunges on the Smith Machine, instructed on the proper use of the adductor machine, and explained how he’d gotten his killer calves on a leg press. By the time I got done doing my third set of hack squats, I thought he was trying to kill me. My legs felt like jelly.

  “I hope you hired me a masseuse because, after this workout, I think I need one,” I moaned, trying to stand. It felt like I had lead weights attached to each ankle.

  He sucked on the straw from his water bottle and pulled a phone from the pocket of his gym shorts. “I’ll get you one.”

  I reached over and covered the display before he could thumb a text into one of his minions. “I was kidding. I don’t want any stranger touching my body.” I shuddered at the thought.